


seeking the crazy

by Liu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, mostly - Freeform, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 07:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: Viktor is asked to look after his four-year-old goddaughter for a few days. He does not expect Charlie to show up at the Shell Cottage.





	seeking the crazy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for aroacehogwarts' "Aro/Ace Harry Potter Fanfiction and Fanart Competition" on tumblr. 
> 
>  
> 
> Not Brit-picked or beta-ed, so please forgive me if a British character suddenly says something awfully American :'D (suggestions for corrections/concrit are always welcome!)

Viktor stumbles when the Portkey drops him off in warm sand. It takes a few deep breaths for the initial wave of nausea to pass, and then he straightens, closing his eyes and enjoying the salty breeze coming from the sea. It’s strange how much this place always feels like coming home, this secluded, picturesque cliffside in Cornwall – much more than his own house, that’s for sure. For a moment, he allows himself the memory of the walls that always feel a little too bare, the bed that always feels temporary and not quite right, and he knows he’s made the right decision in coming here.

It’s not just the scenery, though: ever since he announced his official retirement, all the wizarding magazines in Europe have been betting on his return, hounding his every step, constructing more and more ridiculous theories about his life, and there’s just something about finding a couple of Extendable Ears in his front garden every month that would grate on any sane person’s nerves.

So when Fleur’s letter arrived, it did not take much thinking to decide. _You could come early_ , she wrote, _even though you probably won’t have much peace._ Apparently, the whole Weasley family has been in an uproar about the upcoming wedding for weeks now, and Bill has set his mind on acquiring some rare magical politics book for Hermione from a peddler in Cayenne; _and I refuse, Viktor, I REFUSE to put my child through transatlantic travel if she has a perfectly responsible godfather who could watch her while recovering from his sordid affairs with Romanian vampire models._

How she keeps finding the articles about him in all the obscure South-European wizarding tabloids, Viktor does not know; what he does know is that she will tease him mercilessly while also offering sympathy about the horrible, horrible ways of the wizarding press.

And despite that, he’s here, sand already in his trainers and a smile creeping up to his face as he approaches the tiny cottage decorated with sparkling white shells. He’s almost at the door when it opens and Victoire bursts out of the house, golden hair trailing after her as she runs to him, screaming ‘Vic! Vic!’ in the high-pitched, loud voice of an excited child.

The immense love he carries for her ignites in his chest and his knees hit the sand as he spreads his arms and allows Victoire to fall into the first of many hugs she will no doubt demand. Not that Viktor minds: he was lost the moment he first saw her, tiny and sleeping in Fleur’s arms, before he learned her name, before Fleur asked him, misty-eyed and serious, if he would be her godfather. It meant the world to Viktor then, weary as he was of the media craze even four years ago, starting to feel the loneliness of constant travel, of training a little too hard, a little too much. It still means the world, to be allowed to be a part of this little girl’s life, to be considered a distant, yet undeniable part of the Weasley clan, great as it is in comparison to Viktor’s one paternal great-aunt he hasn’t spoken to in months.

Maybe that’s why Shell Cottage always feels like home, in the end: because there’s always someone to return _to_ , and Viktor tries not to dwell on that as the old notes of discomfort spread through his belly. He focuses on Victoire instead, mumbles nonsense to her and lets her climb onto his shoulders to carry her home, promises gifts and doesn’t even wince when she shrieks happily right into his ear.

“Welcome back,” Fleur tells him, leaning against the doorway with a soft smile playing on her lips. He never thought domestic life would suit her, but she’s tackled the role of a wife and a mother the only way she knows how, with dogged determination, with bravery and wit that Viktor has always admired in her. It becomes her, this quiet, comfortable life in a tiny cottage, more than he’s ever thought possible, and she always says the same thing to Viktor when he arrives, says it fondly and honestly, like she somehow senses she’s welcoming him home rather than saying hello to a guest.

They have dinner around the round table that is leaning a little to the left, and Viktor teases Fleur about the peas. She promises to hex him in his sleep, just like she always does, with a glint in her eyes that lets him know she’s (probably) not serious, and then he repents by doing the dishes. Bill fills him in on the latest wedding news, on Audrey and Angelina’s pregnancies and George’s outrageous suggestions for baby names, on Molly’s acceptance of the fact that the Quidditch Witch magazine might’ve misinterpreted Viktor’s friendly dinner with Ginny last year.

Which is a relief: the Howler was incredibly long, and the few Weasley gatherings he was invited to were nothing if not awkward, with the Burrow’s matron very obviously making sure that Viktor was never in the same room as Ginny.

“She’s going to knit you a Weasley sweater by way of apology, just you wait, mate,” Bill laughs, and Viktor tries his best not to look pleased about the idea, but he apparently fails, because Bill claps his shoulder and chuckles: “It’s going to be garish orange, I think. Or perhaps beige. She hasn’t subjected any of us to beige yet, so it’s either you or whoever Charlie brings to the wedding.”

The sudden mention of the one Weasley who has been kept out of the conversation trips up something small and suppressed in Viktor’s heart, and he shrugs.

“Is he bringing a date?”

“He’d better,” Fleur snorts as she joins them, curling into her husband’s side. She must have succeeded in putting Victoire to sleep, because the sounds of wheedling from upstairs have died down, and Viktor almost feels regret that he’ll have to wait until tomorrow to give Vicky her present. “Molly has been on a warpath ever since Hermione proposed. She thinks it’s high time Charlie settled down too, preferably closer to home than a dragon reservation in the middle of nowhere.”

Viktor laughs at that: even with Fleur’s rolling ‘r’s, he can practically hear Molly complaining about that. He understands, though; it’s hard to be so far away from family, and he can only imagine how difficult it must be for a parent.

The conversation detours towards the proposal then, the first piece of information that Viktor can offer since he fielded Hermione’s anxious letters for the better part of three months before she finally did it. They only talk for a short while before the Portkey-lag sets in and Viktor starts yawning more than contributing to the conversation. Fleur kisses his cheek when she says good-night, and she and Bill both hug Viktor like they’re truly glad he’s here with them. It’s a strange, bittersweet joy, to have this kind of comfort only a few times a year: Viktor knows that he’s lucky he gets to come back, but he always wonders what it would be like if he didn’t have to leave. It’s not necessarily about Shell Cottage and its inhabitants: he loves them dearly and always relishes every moment here. But when he settles into the cool sheets that smell of lavender and salty breeze, he can’t help the ache in his heart at the thought of having this, a home in a person, for himself, every day.

…

“You’ll do just fine,” Fleur says in the doorway, looking like she’s trying to convince herself more than Viktor. “If anything happens, you can always fire-call Molly. Or Percy. Or George, he’ll be-“

“In his shop, I know,” Viktor smiles. No need to take her worry personally: he knows that Fleur trusts him, absolutely and completely. After all, if she didn’t, he wouldn’t be here, a sleepy kid in his arms as they wave goodbye to Victoire’s parents. “Go, or you will miss your Portkey.”

“Right. You be good, Victoire, yes? Don’t make Viktor go bald, it will not suit him.”

“Maybe it will,” Vicky mumbles stubbornly, glancing up at Viktor’s hair, kept short for practicality but nowhere near as short as his Triwizard Tournament days. Viktor still remembers Fleur complaining about it then – even now, she snorts and rolls her eyes:

“It will not, trust _maman_ on this, darling. Have fun, you two,” she smiles and then she’s touching the old shoelace in Bill’s hand and they’re off, blinking out of existence with a quiet whoosh.

“It’s just two of us now,” Viktor tells his goddaughter, but she has nodded off in the last half-minute, and her only response is in quiet snores. He carries her back to her room, carefully lowering her to the bed and making sure she won’t be cold – the early mornings are quite chilly here in Cornwall, even in July. He busies himself with making breakfast, pancakes and eggs because he might not understand the combination himself, but Victoire, like her father, seems to like it, and Viktor has the irresistible urge to fulfill any and all of his goddaughter’s wishes, even those not spoken out loud.

It’s a little odd, being in the house alone: he’s been, and cooked, here before, but there were always more people around, visiting Bill or Fleur, helping or being helped, chatting and laughing and sometimes arguing. There’s a sense of calm that borders on loneliness now, and not much to do when the food is ready and under a heat-preserving spell. Viktor makes some coffee, more out of habit than any pressing need to wake himself up, and settles into one of the tall armchairs by the fireplace, ready to wait a couple hours for Vicky to wake up – she has enough energy for three children, but she is not an early bird most days, that’s for sure.

And then, the knock comes. Viktor startles, and coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup, making him curse quietly under his breath. He gets up, waving his wand over his shirt to get the stain out, and moves to open the door, guessing it will be Harry, if Fleur has talked to him about Viktor’s arrival, or perhaps Hermione, in need of someone to tell her to stop driving herself up the wall with the wedding.

What Viktor does not expect is to find himself face to face with Charlie Weasley, hand raised in greeting and a wide smile on his freckled, sunburnt face.

“Surpri- oh. Hi. Um.”

The smile disappears, leaving room for confusion, and Viktor feels a hint of regret like pressure in his chest.

“Hello,” he says politely. “Bill and Fleur are away. They went to get a wedding gift.”

Charlie nods. There’s silence, only for a moment, but Viktor feels the awkwardness of that moment roll over him like a tidal wave. He doesn’t know what it is about Charlie that makes him act weird every time, but there’s just something about the man that makes Viktor feel eighteen again, clumsy and shy to the point of coming off as grouchy. There’s less than four years’ difference between them, and at their age, it truly shouldn’t matter, but Viktor can’t help but remember the Triwizard Tournament, his stupid solution to the First Task, and oh, how the dragon keepers mourned the crushed eggs. Viktor hardly remembers the other ones: but Charlie Weasley’s regret and fury burned into his memory then, and Viktor could never find a way to make it right, to get rid of that guilty feeling whenever he had to face Charlie.

Which, up until now, hasn’t been that often.

Charlie breaks the silence first, rubbing at the back of his neck:

“Uh. I guess I’ll go, then – I can come back later. I just wanted to surprise them, come a bit early, but I’ll just. I haven’t seen Tinworth in a while, so I can spend a few hours down there, huh?”

“The gift is in Cayenne,” Viktor says. “They will be away for two or three days, at least.”

He wonders if there’s enough room at the Burrow for a surprise visit, this close to the wedding – but he’s spared the terrifying task of asking because tiny feet stomp down the stairs and Victoire’s out the door and around Charlie’s knees before either man can react.

“Uncle Charlie! Are you my surprise? Vic said he had a surprise for me, but he didn’t give me anything yesterday so I thought he forgot, but now you’re here!”

Charlie’s eyes go comically wide and when he glances up at Viktor, for a moment it looks like he’s blushing, but then he crouches down and teases Victoire gently, making her shriek and laugh and then huff before she wraps her tiny arms around his neck.

“You’ll stay, right?” she demands, tugging at the leather cord around Charlie’s neck holding a small bronze dragon. “Mom and Dad aren’t here so you can stay in their room, or you can stay with me, or with Vic, but you’ll stay!”

Nobody could resist a plea like that, Viktor is sure. But Charlie looks up at him, like he’s asking what to do, asking for _permission_ , and that’s ridiculous; the Shell Cottage is his brother’s home, a _Weasley_ home, and if anything, Charlie has more right to be here than Viktor. The thought stings, for a second, and then Viktor pushes it down and shrugs:

“There’s breakfast, if you want. Pancakes and eggs.”

Victoire yells happily into Charlie’s ear then, making the man wince. Charlie smiles a bit and ducks his head down as he rises, Victoire still in his arms. The awkwardness subsides, a little, and he nods:

“Yeah. Okay. I could use some pancakes. Always been my favourite breakfast food.”

Viktor tries not to feel absurdly pleased about that, and steps out of the doorway, making his way to the kitchen.

…

“Ahhh, that feels good,” Charlie sighs happily after breakfast and pats his stomach, purposefully puffing up so that his belly looks way rounder than it actually is. Victoire giggles and berates him for eating way too much, and Charlie plays it up, demanding more. He launches himself out of the chair, making absurd grimaces and promising to fill up with little kids, and Victoire shrieks as she half-falls, half-jumps off her chair, stumbling through the house, yelling at Viktor to save her.

He waves his wand to catch a few of the trinkets knocked down from the tables and shelves as the two hurricanes whirl past, and smiles to himself. Victoire doesn’t get to see her Uncle Charlie as often as the other Weasleys, not even as often as Viktor, seeing as he’s been fully retired for almost a year now and the only thing holding him back from showing up at the Shell Cottage every other week is a sense of propriety. That she takes to Charlie so easily is a sign of how happy a child she is, open and loving and ready to assume the best about people; and maybe, a little, it’s a sign of how wonderful a man Charlie must be, so easy to like, so ready to make a fool out of himself just to make his niece laugh. It warms something in Viktor’s chest, but the fondness is tinged with regret – maybe they could’ve been friends, he and Charlie, if only he had been smarter, thought of other ways to get that golden egg… and maybe it’s silly, deep down, Viktor knows it is, to hold on to an unfortunate accident from more than ten years ago. But there’s always been this distance between them that has gradually trickled away with the other Weasleys, and Viktor is not good enough with people to know how to breach it. If an attempt like that would even be welcome.

Considering how Charlie is with others in the family, probably not.

“Vic! Save me!” Victoire screams with laughter and launches herself at Viktor, grabbing his knee and twisting herself around his leg. “Save me from the monster!”

She tugs at his shirt and Viktor picks her up just as Charlie barrels from around the corner, hands like claws held up and his face caught in what is probably supposed to be a dragon’s roar. Victoire giggles and holds on to Viktor, cutting off his air supply a little, but he wraps his arm tighter around her anyway.

“Go away, dragon,” Viktor says, feeling a bit awkward at first, but getting into the game in the next moment. “This one is protected! You will not have her!”

“Roaaaaar,” is Charlie’s only response, brown eyes twinkling in amusement. He leaps forward, and Viktor jumps out of his reach; Charlie changes directions and lunges left, making Viktor duck right. Victoire giggles and Viktor twists away, holding on to her as he runs for the door, a roaring dragon at his heels, although the effect is somewhat spoiled when the mighty beast snickers here and there. They’re slowed down by the door, but Viktor runs for his life when it opens, sand flying and sun shining bright up high. Victoire giggles and urges him on, slapping his shoulder and yelling, and Viktor turns to see how far Charlie is-

His leg twists in the sand, finding a small stone, and he’s down the next moment, managing to twist like years of Quidditch have taught him, shielding Victoire from the fall and landing hard on his shoulder. He oomphs at the impact, air leaving his lungs in a rush, and for a moment, he doesn’t know which way is up and how to move.

Then, hands on him, large and warm and a bit rough, his sides, his shoulders, neck, then his cheek, “Viktor! Oh bugger, Viktor, you alright, mate!?” and Charlie sounds genuinely worried. It shouldn’t make Viktor feel so warm inside, but maybe, it’s just the sun and sand all around him. He opens his eyes, and Victoire laughs:

“The dragon wins! Now he’ll bite me and I’ll be a dragon too! And then we can bite Vic and he’ll be a dragon with us!”

“That’s not how dragons work, pumpkin,” Charlie chuckles and sits heavily in the sand, running his hand down his face and getting sand in his hair and eyes. He looks like an offended cat for a moment, and Viktor laughs; Charlie looks at him, and for a split second, there’s no distance, no awkwardness, just two men smiling at each other.

But Charlie looks away almost immediately, and Viktor’s left feeling a little cold. Perhaps the sun has not warmed the sand enough; he pushes himself up and checks on Victoire, making sure she’s fine after their untimely loss to the dragon (and the beach).

Victoire asks about dragons all the way back to the house, which is considerably further than Viktor would’ve thought. They must’ve ran longer than it seemed, but Victoire doesn’t seem to mind: perched atop Viktor’s shoulders and asking ‘why’ about everything Charlie says, she seems to be having a good enough time. Viktor remains silent for most of the exchange, listening to Charlie talk. The man becomes even more animated when he talks about the dragons, hands flying and his smile wide, eyes bright with the same sort of excitement that Viktor remembers once having about Quidditch. But the distance between them is back full-force, an invisible wall without any doors – it’s in the way Charlie carefully doesn’t look at Viktor, in the way he keeps just out of reach so he doesn’t accidentally brush Viktor’s shoulder when gesturing about flight patterns or wingspans.

Viktor tries to forget how warm and safe those hands made him just a few minutes ago. He’s almost succeeded by the time they get back to the house.

…

Victoire is not disappointed by Viktor’s actual gift. The dress is mostly white, smooth, soft cotton reaching down to her knees, the embroidery bold and colourful around her arms and down her chest. The little cross-stitch birds around the hem of her skirt have been charmed to chirp and flutter their red wings when she twirls around, and Victoire laughs and tries to chase the movement with her tiny hands.

Charlie provides great backdrop for her own excitement, poking at the little birds and chuckling when they fly away from his touch, their song louder for a moment. Viktor thinks that Fleur and Bill might want to know about the silencing charms on the fabric, later on, but for now, he’s content to let Victoire (and Charlie) have fun with trying to discover just how loud those birds can be.

He moves to the kitchen, quickly checking for ingredients, but as usual, the Shell Cottage is well-stocked. He settles on a simple pasta dish for lunch, and possibly dinner. He doesn’t mind cooking, especially if there’s someone to share the food with, but he would prefer spending his precious time with Victoire away from the stove.

“You’re cooking?”

He’s just started to cut the tomatoes and he almost slices his finger off – Charlie’s voice comes from way too close and when Viktor half-turns, he finds the other man looking over Viktor’s shoulder with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?” Viktor says, not sure what the question is supposed to mean. But Charlie’s eyes light up even before Viktor can ask if the man would prefer another dish.

“A man of many talents, huh?” Charlie smiles, swiping a bit of tomato. The juice drips to the floor before it makes the journey to Charlie’s mouth, and Viktor can’t help but chuckle at the guilty look Charlie gives to the mess before waving it away with his wand. Charlie’s eyes are all warm chocolate when he looks up again: “No, really, that’s impressive. I can’t cook to save my life… I went from the Hogwarts feasts straight to the preserve’s canteen.”

Viktor doesn’t know what makes him offer up the knife, but it’s too late to take it back once he’s holding the handle towards Charlie, motioning for him to take it.

“You can help,” he says. “It’s not so hard, once you try.”

Charlie stares at the knife as if Viktor has offered to stab him in the gut.

“Are you serious? I don’t know any kitchen spells-“

“No spells,” Viktor shrugs. He’s never been that great with those either – but he’s seen the way Molly Weasley’s kitchen seems to be flying around her in an eerily coordinated dance, so he understands Charlie’s high standards for the craft. “It’s easier when you know where the knife goes.”

“I’ll hold you responsible if I cut my hand off,” Charlie grins, but he takes the knife, and Viktor turns away before his face can betray the fluttery warmth that settles in his stomach when their fingers brush on the handle.

…

Charlie doesn’t cut his hand off, but it’s a near thing. He proves an attentive student, though, listening to Viktor’s instructions and nodding away as he cuts and slices and stirs. Maybe it’s not the height of culinary experience, but they manage a passable tomato sauce, and Victoire messily finishes her whole plate, so Viktor counts it as a win.

She yawns without demanding dessert, too, and Viktor takes her upstairs for her afternoon nap, tucking her in and yielding to the demand for a story. She falls asleep before the good witch even takes off for the rescue mission, snoring lightly and clutching a fluffy three-headed dragon that must’ve been a gift from Charlie because Viktor doesn’t remember seeing it earlier.

“Alright, seriously, though, you have to be bad at _something_ ,” Charlie laughs quietly when Viktor comes back downstairs. He’s lounging in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, a Butterbeer in his hand and another, unopened, at the table, presumably left there for Viktor. The simple gesture twists a knot in Viktor’s chest, but he pushes it down – he’s being silly about this, about Charlie, and he doesn’t like feeling so off-balance. “No, really. I’m having a moment of insecurity here – tell me one thing you’re really bad at.”

Viktor chuckles and shakes his head – if there’s someone who should be feeling insecure, it’s definitely not Charlie, so lively and adventurous. It’s a grumpy ex-Quidditch player who might be alright in a kitchen, but who is so bad at this, at talking to people he doesn’t know well, at all the things that seem to come naturally to Charlie. He’s bad at apologizing for the folly of youth, at making connections, at figuring out how to reach for the things he truly wants, as soon as they’re not a Golden Snitch… but he can’t say that out loud, lay the heavy stuff out there into the relaxed atmosphere, and so he sits down and shrugs, reaching for the Butterbeer.

“I am bad at knitting,” he says, thinking of Molly and her sweaters (and not wondering, not at all, if he would indeed get one for Christmas this year).

Charlie blinks. “You knit?”

“No. That’s why I know I am bad at it.”

Charlie laughs then, a deep, earthy sound that echoes through the room and settles somewhere close to Viktor’s heart.

“See? That’s another thing you’re good at, that doesn’t count.”

Viktor blinks, confused. “What is?”

“Being funny. I never thought you were funny, but you are, and it’s not fair. What’s left for us goofy uncles then, huh?”

Viktor tries not to preen; not many people have accused him of being funny before. Hermione, maybe, and Fleur, here and there. It feels good, to have someone laugh at his jokes, even though he’s only half-aware of making any: it feels even better for that someone to be Charlie, although Viktor shies away from the reason why, even in the confines of his own mind.

“You can always be the brave uncle. With all the dragons,” he offers, and Charlie laughs.

“Vicky’s got much braver family members to spare, I’d say. Dragons aren’t that dangerous, when you know how to talk to them. They can be very territorial, but also loyal. They also get attached to humans, in their own way.”

Viktor hmm-s under his breath, understanding for a moment, and then grins:

“With how that sounds, the position of crazy uncle is yours.”

That makes Charlie laugh again, long and loud, and the thrum of warmth in Viktor’s chest is back. The walls are crumbling, and it’s comfortable, effortless for the moment. Viktor keeps waiting for Charlie’s defences to snap back up, for himself to say something awkward and wrong that would shatter the moment.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak before a knock on the door sounds, and then the door opens, and Charlie groans.

“She’s gonna kill me,” he whispers loudly, looking pained, and then Viktor realizes it must be-

“Viktor? Vicky? Is anyone home?”

Fleur must’ve told Molly that Viktor would be watching her daughter: he should’ve known that Molly would stop by to make sure that he knows how to feed a child.

She spots him in the next second and smiles wide, ‘Viktor, how nice to see you again-‘ but the she stops in her tracks as her eyes fall on her son, and the smile instantly turns into a scowl.

“Charlie! Why, I didn’t know you would be coming early – you don’t fire-call, you don’t write, how am I supposed to know anything! And you still haven’t told us anything about your date for the wedding! The seating plan will be completely ruined! But I have the perfect girl for you, she’s Ginny’s teammate, a lovely young-“

“Mum, I _have_ a date,” Charlie groans, and Viktor’s stomach twists in a painful knot.

“Oh?” Molly raises an eyebrow, obviously only half-believing her son. “Who is it, then? Tell me all about her!”

Charlie sets his Butterbeer down and gets up from the armchair, and Viktor braces himself for the imminent talk about the virtues of Charlie’s girlfriend, although he doesn’t want to acknowledge the reason why it bothers him this much.

But Charlie, Charlie takes one step forward, then two, and then he’s standing by Viktor’s side and draping an arm around his shoulders, and Viktor tries not to tense, but he doesn’t quite manage.

“I’m going with Viktor,” Charlie announces, and the knot in Viktor’s stomach loosens and then swoops towards the sky, lodging in Viktor’s throat. He doesn’t dare look at Charlie, for fear of seeing laughter in the man’s eyes that would make this just one big joke, for fear of betraying that he would not mind if Charlie’s words were true.

Molly scoffs, waving her hand around:

“Why would you go with a friend when you can-“

“No,” Charlie interrupts firmly, and his hand on Viktor’s shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly. “Mum. I’m going _with_ Viktor. Together.”

That sure takes the wind out of Molly Weasley’s sails – she blinks, once, twice, opens her mouth, then closes it, eyes darting between the two of them and narrowing suspiciously.

Viktor swallows and leans into Charlie – they’re nearly of height, with an inch or two in Viktor’s favour, maybe, but Charlie’s chest is broad and warm and holds Viktor’s weight well.

“Oh,” Molly says, and then claps her hands together: “That’s all very well, my dear… but you could’ve said something. The seating plan will have to be completely rearranged now, you were supposed to sit with Auntie Muriel, you know how she loves you… ah, nothing to be done. Did you boys have anything sensible to eat?”

And then Viktor’s brain checks out – he can hear Charlie telling his mother that Viktor is actually a very good cook, that she doesn’t have to worry because Charlie, and Victoire, have been fed wonderfully. There’s something about Victoire, and Bill and Fleur having gone to Cayenne, but Viktor is having trouble focusing though the haze in his mind: eventually, he realizes it might be Charlie’s closeness that’s causing the trouble and he pats Charlie’s chest awkwardly, stepping away from him. His mind doesn’t clear that much, and Charlie gives him an odd look that could be a question or a warning or just confusion, but Viktor doesn’t have the time or energy to dissect that.

He offers Molly something to eat: she gives him the kindly look of a mother who doesn’t believe that her children could produce anything edible, and counters his offer, saying that she could send something if they want.

He makes his retreat to the kitchen anyway, thinking they need some time to talk without him, but Molly pops in just a moment later, looking rather worried.

“Viktor, dear, you know that you’re a part of the family even if you don’t date any of my children, don’t you?”

Warmth floods Viktor’s chest, because he knows, but he’s still weak in the face of a Weasley telling him that he belongs. But he really doesn’t want a repeat of the past year, so he nods:

“I think about Ginny like my sister.”

She smiles and pats his cheek.

“I know, Viktor. I know. It’s just- ah. Charlie is… he’s had a lot of girlfriends, in Romania. He never brought any of them home, though, so I think you’re special to him. I hope you two will be very happy together. And that you’ll give me a lot of beautiful grandchildren.”

Before Viktor can unpack all of that, she’s gone, yelling at her son again for never calling. Victoire joins in on the yelling soon, her nap decidedly over and the sounds of chirping loud from the living room. Viktor splashes his face with cold water and dries himself off with a quick spell, and then stares out of the window, trying to draw some strength from the steady motion of the sea, but his mind is whirling too loudly for the waves to have much effect.

Eventually, he hears his name in the conversation and he decides that he’s been hiding too long already. He finds his way back to the living room and Molly smiles warmly at him. It will be terrifying when she learns about the lie – Viktor is not looking forward to the silences and scowls. Maybe they could tell her that it simply didn’t work out between them in the end…

He’s torn out of his spiralling thoughts by Molly’s voice.

“Viktor? Viktor! I was just telling Charlie, I can spare some time for my favourite granddaughter, so you can have some time for yourselves,” she says, and Vicky whoops, twirling around again and making the birds chirp.

“She’s your only granddaughter so far, Mum,” Charlie grins, and Molly frowns at him:

“You should take this seriously, Charlie. It’s important to keep the relationship fresh! Your father and I-“

“Merlin’s pants, Mum! We’re going, we’re going!”

And then Charlie’s grabbing Viktor’s hand, the hard, callused palm closing around Viktor’s fingers, and Viktor is being dragged to the door, Molly yelling after them.

“Charles Peregrinus Weasley, don’t you swear at your mother! I will-“

The door closes behind them and Charlie’s laughing, dragging Viktor down the short walkway and up the dunes, running until they’re out of breath and collapse into the sand, Viktor chuckling along with Charlie’s quiet huffs. Viktor would’ve thought it would be awkward, after what happened inside, but they lay in the sand in companionable silence, watching tiny white clouds roll over the sky. Charlie stops laughing eventually; Viktor glances back, and the Shell Cottage is just an outline in the distance by then. The long grass sprouting from the sand dunes dances in the breeze, and the sea beckons, even though Viktor knows it may still be way too cold for a swim.

“Peregrinus,” Viktor says then, and Charlie nudges him with a knee.

“Not my fault that all the crazy uncles in my family had weird names,” he says, and his voice is full of his smile, even though Viktor’s not looking at him.

“Mine is Aleksandar,” Viktor says. Charlie laughs.

“Of course even your middle name has to be impressive. Go figure.”

Viktor smiles up at the clouds.

“My crazy uncle was hit by a Muggle ice-cream truck, if that helps?”

Charlie laughs and laughs, and then there’s silence again, and Viktor’s heart is beating in time with the sound of waves washing over the shore.

“Do you still love her?” Charlie asks, out of the blue, and it takes a moment for Viktor to emerge out of his content daze.

“Who?”

“Hermione,” Charlie clarifies, and the direction of his voice changes a little, like he’s turned his head to look at Viktor. Viktor doesn’t look back. “I mean… I know she’s getting married to my brother, and they’re perfect for each other, I just… I need to know how ready I should be to drink your sorrows away, mate.”

Viktor has a feeling that Charlie was going to say something else, before the drinking and the sorrows and the half-failed attempt at a joke. If he were truly heartbroken, he would hate it: but he hasn’t felt like that about Hermione in a long time. If he’s honest with himself…

“I’m not sure I ever loved her, not like that,” he says, letting his confession soar up to the clouds so they can carry his embarrassment away. It works, mostly, and suddenly, courage washes over him like the sea, courage to say what he’s never told anyone, not even himself.

Charlie is still looking at him, Viktor can feel it, but if he meets Charlie’s eyes, he will never say it out loud. And he needs to, in this quiet moment, among the dunes, under the bright blue sky. He needs to say it, for Charlie’s sake but mostly for his own, so that he can finally stop reaching for something that isn’t there, for something he doesn’t truly want to catch.

“She was safe,” he says quietly, looking for the right words. “She was smart, and didn’t like Quidditch at all, and she was fifteen and I… I think I knew that she would not want anything from me. I liked her, and I am very happy that we are friends. But I don’t think I knew what it means to be in love, at eighteen. I don’t think I know it now.”

He can hear Charlie breathing, and for a second he thinks Charlie will interrupt with the usual platitudes, _you will meet someone_ and _how come a Quidditch star like yourself_ and _it’ll hit you when you expect it last_. Viktor has heard it before, thought himself odd for not knowing what to do with the hopes forced upon him, but he’s closing in on thirty now, and he is beginning to settle in his own skin, ready to face those platitudes with firmness, ready to stand his ground if Charlie Weasley tells him what he should want.

But Charlie remains silent, and the urge to fight dies down in Viktor’s chest, leaving behind clarity and peace he never would’ve expected.

“I tried to date other girls. Two. It didn’t go well,” he says, thinking back to all those moments of gut-wrenching discomfort. “It was like everyone knew and felt these things, and I was looking at the couples and I wanted what they had, when they were holding hands and talking. But then they wanted to kiss, and… the other things. And it just felt… wrong.”

Charlie draws in a sharp breath at his side. Viktor turns to him without thinking, and his heart stops. There’s a storm raging in Charlie’s warm eyes, emotions swirling by faster than Viktor can decipher them, but a hard, callused hand shifts in the sand and covers Viktor’s fingers, and the world settles a little firmer around him.

Charlie speaks then, his voice rough, catching on every other word.

“I had sex once,” he says, “when I was seventeen. Everyone in my year has done it, or so they said, and I didn’t want to be the odd one out, so when Alvina Culpepper put her hand on my thigh, I thought I’d… I don’t know, I just, I thought I would figure out what it was about and then I’d finally be _normal_.”

The word resonates painfully in Viktor’s chest, reminding him of all the times he has asked himself the same thing – whether that magical _one day_ that people kept promising would make him feel what everyone else did, would make him capable of talking to people without worrying about whether they wanted something from him that he couldn’t give. He doesn’t interrupt Charlie, though, just tightens his hand under Charlie’s and nods ever so slightly. Some of the tension leaks out from around Charlie’s mouth and he almost-smiles, even though there’s something slightly bitter in it, too.

“It was so empty,” Charlie sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “She was… I liked her, I did, she was funny and she liked Care for Magical Creatures, too, and she didn’t mind that I could only really talk about Quidditch or animals back then. Well. Not that I talk about much else now.”

Viktor chuckles at that. “They are not bad things to talk about.”

“Can you stop being perfect?” Charlie laughs, a little quieter than he usually does. “Or else I will never get over this stupid crush and you will hate me and then we’ll have to draw up a schedule to visit Victoire and it’ll be awkward for everyone.”

Viktor’s heart leaps in his chest, wild and panicked, an ingrained response by now because he’s learned to associate the word ‘crush’ with failure and despair and discomfort.

“Crush?” he croaks, and Charlie’s eyes widen, reflecting the panic that Viktor feels.

He sits up abruptly, and Viktor’s hand feels cold without his touch, and he’s mumbling ‘Merlin’s balls, Merlin’s balls’. Viktor thinks about Molly, and what she would say if she heard her son now, and he chuckles, pushing himself up on his elbows and waiting.

“I… didn’t mean to say that,” Charlie mumbles, his head resting on his folded-up knees. There’s sand sticking to his hair, his neck, the wide expanse of his back, and Viktor wants to reach out and brush it off, but he’s not sure the gesture would be welcome. He’s learned to curb his need to touch and hold, to reach for anyone, for fear of it being taken the wrong way, and it’s hard to push past those self-inflicted limits now. Not when he’s still not sure that’s what Charlie wants – not when he doesn’t know if he should trust the quiet spark of hope in his chest that maybe, he could have something real and good and not _lonely_.

“I thought you didn’t like me very much,” Viktor admits when the silence stretches on for too long, tension where peace used to sit not too long ago.

Charlie’s head snaps up, and then he twists around, staring at Viktor like he’s just announced that he’s marrying a Basilisk.

“Are you out of your mind? I’m sure my face looked like a tomato half the time when you were around. Why did you think that?”

“The eggs,” Viktor mutters under his breath, his face doing a very close approximation of what Charlie just said about tomatoes.

“What?”

“The eggs,” he manages, a little louder. “The Triwizard Tournament. My dragon smashed her eggs, and you were so angry.”

The beat of silence that follows is the longest Viktor has experienced in his life, and then Charlie starts laughing, and Viktor wishes the beach would open up and swallow him whole.

“Merlin’s pants, are you for real- I wasn’t upset with you. You were a kid with no training, facing a protective dragon mother with nothing but your wand. Before we left the preserve, I kept telling Constantin that we should swap out the eggs, that using the real ones is asking for a disaster, and he didn’t listen, and that’s why I was mad. Because it could’ve been prevented, if my boss didn’t think that fake eggs would detract from the ‘simulated reality of facing a dragon’ or some such rot. Did you really… oh Merlin. This is… you’re really nothing like what I imagined.”

In the sea of relief swishing around in Viktor’s chest, there’s a pang of worry, of defiance. “Is that a bad thing?”

Charlie smiles, and he turns his body towards Viktor. His fingers touch Viktor’s in the warm sand.

“It’s a very good thing. At first, I thought you were haughty and self-absorbed, like you had every right to be, after being the star of the World Cup at eighteen. But then I saw you at Bill’s wedding, and you were arguing with Xenophilius about the symbol, and then fighting to keep everyone safe, even though you could’ve fled. I liked you, even back then – I liked that you didn’t smile to please anyone, that you weren’t pretending.”

“I was,” Viktor smiles a little at the memory. “I complained about girls, so nobody would ask me why I am there alone.”

Charlie laughs, quietly, contently, and grips Viktor’s hand tighter.

“I think Harry will propose soon. And two of my colleagues might be getting married next spring.”

Viktor blinks, not sure what Charlie is saying – and he sees it now, sees the pink tinge of Charlie’s cheeks underneath all the freckles and tiny burn marks.

“What I mean is… would you like to keep me company for all the weddings? You know, so that you won’t have to pretend. And I won’t have to tell my mum that I really don’t want to marry the neighbours’ daughter. Purely practical, of course.”

The twinge of disappointment doesn’t get much time to bloom because Viktor catches the way Charlie’s mouth quirks up, and he smiles.

…

“I could’ve been the Quidditch uncle, you know,” Charlie says when the sun moves across the sky. It doesn’t sound wistful at all, so Viktor dares to glance at him.

“Yes?”

“Yeah. I think Mum wanted me to accept the offer when it came, my seventh year. We could’ve been rivals.”

Viktor knows that Charlie used to be a Seeker back at Hogwarts: his siblings have bragged about him often enough, as if they thought, at first, that Quidditch was all that Viktor spoke and understood. Ginny took the professional sports in the family then, and Viktor was just as proud of her as her siblings and parents, and the talk of Charlie’s wasted potential was dropped. Viktor tries to imagine it, facing England with this fierce, lively man against him, and his blood sings with the excitement of the chase.

“Do you want to fly?” he asks, and Charlie blinks at him for a moment.

“Oh! You mean, now?”

Viktor shrugs, absurdly worried that this is it, that he has stepped over the line somehow and Charlie will say ‘no’. But the man grins at him:

“You got your own broom here? Because I reserve the advantage of something better than Bill’s Cleansweep, that thing should’ve been put out of its misery before Vicky.”

…

Viktor’s newest Nimbus, the last broom from before his deal with the company was cancelled, handles like a dream, and Charlie whoops loudly as he criss-crosses the sky, hanging upside down and swooping low over the waves. Flying is still in his blood, Viktor can see, even though he is maybe a little rusty on the sharper turns. There is no way that Viktor can keep up the pace on Bill’s ancient broom, but it hardly matters: he lets Charlie circle around him, teasing and grinning, and enjoys the feeling of just flying, without a destination, without deals and money and dozens of other people to think about. Nothing hinges on him being the fastest, the smartest, there’s no Snitch to catch, and it’s liberating in a way flying has not been in months.

Charlie circles him again, and then, he’s hovering by Viktor’s side, cheeks flushed with adrenaline: long strands of hair whip around his face, and up this close, in the sharp light of the midday sun, he’s perfect in a way that catches in Viktor’s heart.

“Teach me the Vronski Feint,” Charlie says, out of the blue, and Viktor snorts, glancing down at the old broom:

“Not on this.”

“Hop on, then,” Charlie snickers and sidles closer, the Nimbus’ tail brushing against Viktor’s thigh.

The added weight will make the manoeuvre almost, if not completely, impossible to execute, Viktor knows that; even he might have trouble with it now, his Seeker’s build having given way to muscle ever since he has discovered Muggle gyms as a safe retreat from the madness of the wizarding world. With Charlie, thick and solid, the Nimbus might hold them safely, but hurtling downwards at full speed is another thing completely.

“Come on, just once!” Charlie wheedles, and all reason leaves Viktor. He swings his leg over the Nimbus, settling close behind Charlie, his chest pressed against the man’s back as he reaches around Charlie’s waist to grip the handle.

“Crazy uncle,” he sighs, but Charlie just laughs and spreads his arms, and then Viktor is angling the broom down, towards the swooping waves.

He tries to go a little slower, tries to angle the broom upwards sooner than he normally would, but he’s never done this with another person, and the weight, predictably, makes the broom groan and whine. Charlie screams and Viktor closes his eyes, and then they’re crashing into the water, salt washing over their heads for a moment, the broom grumbling and then shooting out of the waves, aiming for the shore.

Charlie howls, loud and excited, and brushes his wet hair out of his eyes, grinning at Viktor madly. And Viktor knows then, with a startled skip of his heart, that he would do a lot just to see Charlie look at him like that, wild and open and _there_. It’s dangerous, and Viktor worries, for a moment, what it will mean in the long run, what else he will do, and whether it’s a good idea to let himself fall further. But then Charlie splashes him with seawater and giggles and declares that the last to swim to the shore will have to ask Auntie Muriel for a dance at the wedding, and Viktor has only met the woman once, but he really, really does not want to lose.

…

He does lose, and Auntie Muriel complains about her toes all the way through the waltz. But Charlie appears as the song draws to a close, the music on the verge of becoming slower, sweeter, and he’s smiling, asking his aunt if he can steal Viktor away.

And when Viktor takes his hand, the hope for something better, something real and _true_ , doesn’t feel forced at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://pheuthe.tumblr.com) :)


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